Chapter XLIII. Esther's Narrative

by Charles Dickens

　　It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother whohad told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture toapproach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense ofthe peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled bymy fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as aliving creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could notalways conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when Ifirst knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. Ifelt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversationanywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it sometimesnaturally did, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeatedsomething that I knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious nowthat I often did these things when there can have been no danger ofher being spoken of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearinganything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayalthrough me.It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother'svoice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longedto do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it shouldbe so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every publicmention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door ofher house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I oncesat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when wewere so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees thatany link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, allover. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myselfwhich is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I maywell pass that little and go on.When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had manyconversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. Mydear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin somuch wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could notbear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it,and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "Rick ismistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well! We have allbeen mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and timeto set him right."We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust totime until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he hadwritten to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentleand persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devotedRichard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would makeamends when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in thedark, he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away thoseclouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion andmisunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work thesuit out and come through it to his right mind. This was hisunvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained suchpossession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place anyconsideration before him which he did not, with a distorted kind ofreason, make a new argument in favour of his doing what he did."So that it is even more mischievous," said my guardian once to me,"to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone."I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard."Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who wouldadvise with Skimpole?""Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I."Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouragedby Skimpole?""Not Richard?" I asked."No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamercreature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advisingor encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody oranything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child asSkimpole.""Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and nowlooked over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?""What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing hishead, a little at a loss."Yes, cousin John.""Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he isall sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility, and--and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in hisyouth attached too much importance to them and too little to anytraining that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so hebecame what he is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short andlooking at us hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be anexpense to Richard."So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That mustnot be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will neverdo."And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had everintroduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds."Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on hisface. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! Thereis nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the valueof money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it andthinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, mydear?""Oh, yes!" said I."Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you havethe man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of anyharm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in meresimplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'llunderstand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole andcaution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant,an infant!"In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day andpresented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where therewere at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking aboutin cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a bettertenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friendSomebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitudefor business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, Idon't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It wasin a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two orthree of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken,the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a longtime to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirtyfootprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at therents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripeberry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way andstopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce(indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated himwith the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented andallowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabledcondition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain,which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs?We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no otherfurniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without furtherceremony entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingyenough and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind ofshabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty ofcushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books,drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches andpictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows waspapered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothousenectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, andanother of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. Mr.Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown,drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup--it was thenabout mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in thebalcony.He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but roseand received us in his usual airy manner."Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without somelittle difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken."Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs ofbeef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cupof coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don't want them forthemselves, but they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solarabout legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!""This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he everprescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us."Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this isthe bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. Theypluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings,he sings!"He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings!Not an ambitious note, but still he sings.""These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?""No," he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His manwanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether heshould wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I thinknot--if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, forhe went away."My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Isit possible to be worldly with this baby?""This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret ina tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call itSaint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. Ihave a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have aSentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must seethem all. They'll be enchanted."He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and askedhim to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first."My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa,"as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We neverknow what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get onin life, you'll tell me? Certainly. But we don't get on in life.We don't pretend to do it."My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear him?""Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick.""The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "Isuppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on termswith you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthfulpoetry, and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. Ilove him."The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration reallyhad a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not,for the moment, Ada too."You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr.Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold.""Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to whatI don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping oneof the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me withan ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand."If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "youmust not let him pay for both.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial faceirradiated by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If hetakes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have anymoney. If I had any money, I don't know anything about it.Suppose I say to a man, how much? Suppose the man says to me sevenand sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. It isimpossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration forthe man. I don't go about asking busy people what seven andsixpence is in Moorish--which I don't understand. Why should I goabout asking them what seven and sixpence is in Money--which Idon't understand?""Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artlessreply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you mustborrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to thatcircumstance), and leave the calculation to him.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything togive you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition.Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson,I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had onlyto make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque,or a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down ashower of money.""Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor.""No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "Yousurprise me."And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said myguardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage himin that reliance, Harold.""My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear MissSiunmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It'sbusiness, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me.He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightestprospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admirethem. I do admire them--as bright prospects. But I know no moreabout them, and I tell him so."The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this beforeus, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by hisinnocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his ownprotection and argued about that curious person, combined with thedelightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out myguardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely itseemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal,or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared whenhe was not present, and the less agreeable it was to think of hishaving anything to do with any one for whom I cared.Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quitedelighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childishcharacter. He soon came back, bringing with him the three youngladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now adelicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication ofdisorders."This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--playsand sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentimentdaughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedydaughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw alittle and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of timeor money."Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad tostrike out this item in the family attainments. I also thoughtthat she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that shetook every opportunity of throwing in another."It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyesfrom one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting totrace peculiarities in families. In this family we are allchildren, and I am the youngest."The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused bythis droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter."My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is,and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is ournature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrativecapacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It willsound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that weknow nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not theleast. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread wedon't know how to use. We admire the people who possess thepractical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then whyshould they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them.Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to meanwhat he said."We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy foreverything. Have we not?""Oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters."In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, "inthis hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and ofbeing interested, and we do look on, and we are interested. Whatmore can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these threeyears. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having twomore, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was veryagreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions andexchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home oneday, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs.I dare say at some time or other Sentiment and Comedy will bringtheir husbands home and have their nests upstairs too. So we geton, we don't know how, but somehow."She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, andI could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident thatthe three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just aslittle haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father'splaythings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes wereconsulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing theirhair, the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner, theSentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing, and the Comedy daughterin the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, andvivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. Theywere dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligentway.Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found themwonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (whohad been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a changein the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we couldnot help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previouslyvolunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himselffor the purpose."My roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. She ispoorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, Ishall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has beentried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.""That bad man!" said the Comedy daughter."At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by hiswallflowers, looking at the blue sky," Laura complained."And when the smell of hay was in the air!" said Arethusa."It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole assented, butwith perfect good humour. "It was coarse. There was an absence ofthe finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken greatoffence," he explained to us, "at an honest man--""Not honest, papa. Impossible!" they all three protested."At a rough kind of fellow--a sort of human hedgehog rolled up,"said Mr. Skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and fromwhom we borrowed a couple of armchairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we lookedto a man who had got them, to lend them. Well! This morose personlent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, hewanted them back. He had them back. He was contented, you willsay. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasonedwith him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, 'Can you, at yourtime of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that anarm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it isan object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to considerfrom a point of sight? Don't you know that these arm-chairs wereborrowed to be sat upon?' He was unreasonable and unpersuadableand used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at thisminute, I addressed another appeal to him. I said, 'Now, my goodman, however our business capacities may vary, we are all childrenof one great mother, Nature. On this blooming summer morning hereyou see me' (I was on the sofa) 'with flowers before me, fruit uponthe table, the cloudless sky above me, the air full of fragrance,contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common brotherhood,not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime, the absurdfigure of an angry baker!' But he did," said Mr. Skimpole, raisinghis laughing eyes in playful astonishinent; "he did interpose thatridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore Iam very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friendJarndyce."It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and thedaughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was soold a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course.He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and gracefulas any other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away withus in perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeingthrough some open doors, as we went downstairs, that his ownapartment was a palace to the rest of the house.I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something verystartling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in whatensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guestwas in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing butlisten to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Adayielded to the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind,which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we leftSomers Town, veered completely round before we were a couple ofmiles from it.Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters,Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather.In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in thedrawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while Iwas yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains ofbarcaroles and drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still atthe piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains ofmusic, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of theruined old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or twoago and had got tired of, when a card was brought in and myguardian read aloud in a surprised voice, "Sir Leicester Dedlock!"The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with meand before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should havehurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in mygiddiness, to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, orto know where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardianwas presenting me before I could move to a chair."Pray be seated, Sir Leicester.""Mr. Jarndyce," said Sir Leicester in reply as he bowed and seatedhimself, "I do myself the honour of calling here--""You do me the honour, Sir Leicester.""Thank you--of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire to expressmy regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I mayhave against a gentleman who--who is known to you and has been yourhost, and to whom therefore I will make no farther reference,should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort andcharge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify apolite and refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold.""You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf ofthose ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you verymuch.""It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for thereasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion--it is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done methe honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you tobelieve that you would not have been received by my localestablishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy,which its members are instructed to show to all ladies andgentlemen who present themselves at that house. I merely beg toobserve, sir, that the fact is the reverse."My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making anyverbal answer."It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce," Sir Leicester weightilyproceeded. "I assure you, sir, it has given--me--pain--to learnfrom the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was inyour company in that part of the county, and who would appear topossess a cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterredby some such cause from examining the family pictures with thatleisure, that attention, that care, which he might have desired tobestow upon them and which some of them might possibly haverepaid." Here he produced a card and read, with much gravity and alittle trouble, through his eye-glass, "Mr. Hirrold--Herald--Harold--Skampling--Skumpling--I beg your pardon--Skimpole.""This is Mr. Harold Skimpole," said my guardian, evidentlysurprised."Oh!" exclaimed Sir Leicester, "I am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole andto have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope,sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county,you will be under no similar sense of restraint.""You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, Ishall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of anothervisit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places asChesney Wold," said Mr. Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air,"are public benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a numberof delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poormen; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that theyyield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors."Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "Anartist, sir?""No," returned Mr. Skimpole. "A perfectly idle man. A mereamateur."Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped hemight have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Skimpolenext came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole professed himselfmuch flattered and honoured."Mr. Skimpole mentioned," pursued Sir Leicester, addressing himselfagain to my guardian, "mentioned to the house-keeper, who, as hemay have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family--"("That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on theoccasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss Clare,"Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)"--That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there wasMr. Jarndyce." Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name."And hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I haveprofessed my regret. That this should have occurred to anygentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly knownto Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion withher, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady herself) she entertainsa high respect, does, I assure you, give--me--pain.""Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester," returned my guardian."I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of yourconsideration. Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought toapologize for it."I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had noteven appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises meto find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impressionon me as it passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was soconfused and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made hispresence so distressing to me that I thought I understood nothing,through the rushing in my head and the beating of my heart."I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock," said Sir Leicester,rising, "and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure ofexchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards on theoccasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in thevicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and tothese ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr.Skimpole. Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that itwould afford me any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn hadfavoured my house with his presence, but those circumstances areconfined to that gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him.""You know my old opinion of him," said Mr. Skimpole, lightlyappealing to us. "An amiable bull who is detenined to make everycolour scarlet!"Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hearanother word in reference to such an individual and took his leavewith great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with allpossible speed and remained there until I had recovered my self-command. It had been very much disturbed, but I was thankful tofind when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me forhaving been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when Imust tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my beingbrought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to herhouse, even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly associated withme, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was sopainful that I felt I could no longer guide myself without hisassistance.When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usualtalk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and sought myguardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour, andas I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage fromhis reading-lamp."May I come in, guardian?""Surely, little woman. What's the matter?""Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiettime of saying a word to you about myself."He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned hiskind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that itwore that curious expression I had observed in it once before--onthat night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I couldreadily understand."What concerns you, my dear Esther," said he, "concerns us all.You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.""I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice andsupport. Oh! You don't know how much need I have to-night."He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a littlealarmed."Or how anxious I have been to speak to you," said I, "ever sincethe visitor was here to-day.""The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?""Yes."He folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of theprofoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I didnot know how to prepare him."Why, Esther," said he, breaking into a smile, "our visitor and youare the two last persons on earth I should have thought ofconnecting together!""Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago."The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before.He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen tothat) and resumed his seat before me."Guardian," said I, "do you remensher, when we were overtaken bythe thunder-storm, Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of her sister?""Of course. Of course I do.""And reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gonetheir several ways?""Of course.""Why did they separate, guardian?"His face quite altered as he looked at me. "My child, whatquestions are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever didknow, I believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those twohandsome and proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If youhad ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been asresolute and haughty as she.""Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!""Seen her?"He paused a little, biting his lip. "Then, Esther, when you spoketo me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all butmarried once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, andthat that time had had its influence on his later life--did youknow it all, and know who the lady was?""No, guardian," I returned, fearful of the light that dimly brokeupon me. "Nor do I know yet.""Lady Dedlock's sister.""And why," I could scarcely ask him, "why, guardian, pray tell mewhy were they parted?""It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart.He afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that someinjury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause ofquarrel with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but shewrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him--as inliteral truth she did--and that the resolution was exacted from herby her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense ofhonour, which were both her nature too. In consideration for thosemaster points in him, and even in consideration for them inherself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it anddie in it. She did both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, neverheard of her from that hour. Nor did any one.""Oh, guardian, what have I done!" I cried, giving way to my grief;"what sorrow have I innocently caused!""You caused, Esther?""Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sisteris my first remembrance.""No, no!" he cried, starting."Yes, guardian, yes! And her sister is my mother!"I would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not hearit then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put soplainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped inmy better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been withfervent gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed Ihad never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart sofully, as I did that night. And when he had taken me to my roomand kissed me at the door, and when at last I lay down to sleep, mythought was how could I ever be busy enough, how could I ever begood enough, how in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetfulenough of myself, devoted enough to him, and useful enough toothers, to show him how I blessed and honoured him.